Dragon's Tongue (The Demon Bound) (5 page)

Demon instincts, of course, were to strike back, but now was not a good time unless he wanted to bring every mage in the place on his head. He practically fell the last few feet and bounced off the floor, grateful for his demonic resilience. Of course, that tough nature would be useless if the cat got hold of him. Demons were impervious to any weapon, save those of magical nature in their own form. But he was in mouse form, and all it would take would be one slash of a claw to open his throat. Admittedly, the cat would die of convulsion since demon blood was poisonous in any form. Vagner would have some sort of revenge, but he was not so eager to have his life cut ignobly short just now.

He was almost across the floor when he heard the thump of feline padded paws landing on the ground. Within moments, the cat pounced, and Vagner barely escaped the claws by darting back and forth in a random fashion. At least demons were fast, and he sprinted across the remains of the floor and leapt for one of the spines on the other side. With a mighty effort, Vagner scrambled up to the second shelf and over the tops of several thick volumes to duck down behind them on the shelves. Just in time too. A claw raked across the top of the books, searching for him. Fortunately, the space was too small for the cat to get in with him.

That did not stop the creature, however, from growling with feline frustration as it tried to climb to the second shelf and wedge its body into the narrow space. And in the frenzy, it managed to dislodge a couple of books and sent them tumbling to the floor.

Of course!
Vagner frantically searched for something that would work as a lever. The cat’s assault on the shelves raised quite a din, and would soon bring one of the mageborn librarians. A small thin volume stuck between thicker ones and pushed back as such books were wont to do gave the demon what he needed. He leapt for the small book, throwing as much weight against it as possible. Books started to slide sideways, skewing off the shelf like they’d been thrown from a catapult. In a wave they collapsed over the edge.

Vagner heard the cat wail as books rained on it. He quickly took advantage of the feline’s distraction to clamber up the shelves and make his way back onto the beam. The cat recovered and made one last mad effort to capture its prey, but Vagner was on the beam and through the hole. He paused there, catching his breath. A mageborn’s voice shouted, “You stupid beast, look at what you’ve done…”

The cat gave a yowl as a minor magebolt was dislodged in its direction. The mageborn breathed curses about the animal’s ancestry that Vagner agreed with. The demon smiled and waited a little longer. Then, when all seemed quiet, Vagner moved on.

He walked out onto another beam and smiled. The map room was tingling with magic. There were tubes and cases everywhere, and Vagner cast about in wonder at the monumental collection.

But there was work to be done, he told himself. He started crawling up and down various shelves, examining spines and labels. There appeared to be some sort of order, and things were arranged by area. It took Vagner but moments to find the section marked “The Ranges.” Here, he crawled back and forth once more until at last he found what he wanted in a section of leather bound flats. With some effort, he pushed several aside until he came across the one marked “Shadow Vale.”

Vagner grinned. No need for disguises now. He shook himself out of the mouse form and swelled into his own. Timing was everything now, and he hummed cheerfully as he seized the map sheet and rolled it into a tube then tore open a gate spell in the fabric of the world.

There were, of course, some dozen or more mageborn there in an instant. Some used gate spells, while others came running under their own power. And more than one got a glimpse of the demon who thumbed his nose at them before he disappeared in a belch of flames.

Tane Doran would be so pleased.

SIX

A fist thundering against wood jerked Alaric from his sleep. The swift motion of sitting upright did neither his head nor his stomach any good, and with a moan, he fell back into his pillow.

“Open this door in the name of the High Mage of Dun Gealach!” an unfamiliar voice shouted, adding to the painful din. “Open it now!”

Horns!
Alaric eased one eye open. The hammering continued a quick-time march on his door.
It’s still dark!
he moaned inwardly.
This is a bloody indecent hour to be beating down a man’s door.

“Open this door!” the voice continued to shout, and up and down the hall, Alaric heard muffled protests of fellow students being rousted by the sound.

“All right,” Alaric retorted and grimaced when the echo of his own voice rang through his head, which at the moment seemed hollow and overly large. Still, he made a valiant effort to work himself upright. Teeth clenched, he sat on the edge of the bed, holding on so as not to pitch forward, and stretched his hand as he concentrated on his mage lock. One by one, he dismantled the glyphs as he whispered each one’s name. His head throbbed by the time he spoke the last one.

The door exploded inward, and the garish glow of mage light assaulted Alaric’s eyes. He gave an involuntary cry and raised a hand to shade his eyes from the excruciating glare. Blinking, Alaric made out the figure of a man in distinctive blue and grey robes. A master mage by the look of him. He was bearded and coiffed in pale hair, but Alaric could not tell if it was age or a natural blond like his own. The man was not alone. Behind him stood two guards, large burly red-haired Keltoran fellows who looked rather unfriendly. Their eyes darted about, searching the tiny chamber.

“Who are you and what do you want”?” Alaric moaned, hoping this was all going to turn out to be a mistake and he would be allowed to return to sleep.

“Be silent!” the master mageborn ordered. Alaric felt power graze his own mage senses. The surly intruder moved into the chamber, and Alaric pulled back in unease as the fellow’s gaze swept past and honed in on the table where Alaric’s psaltery case sat. The master mage’s clay-colored glance stopped there, and his eyes narrowed in suspicious thought. He took all of two long steps toward the table and seized up the case, practically tearing it open.

“Hey! Be careful with that!” Alaric lurched to his feet in defense of his instrument. A mistake. His stomach heaved. His vision blacked as pain ripped his head. Horns. He had a hangover!

“Seize him!” the master mage said. “You have much to answer for, young man!”

The guards crowded into the room and jerked Alaric upright. He could do little more than dangle in their grasps as they started him for the door.

“Wait,” he protested weakly. “At least let me pull on some breeches and some boots…”

The protest left his lips in vain. These men were a good head taller than Alaric, and both had hands the size of hams. With very little effort and no respect for his dignity, they hauled him out into the hall, nightshirt flapping just above his knees. At least the stone floor was warm beneath his bare feet, which did little to assuage the beating his pride now took, especially since the ruckus had attracted others. What a sight they must have been: a master mage marching along with a psaltery under his arm while a half-naked apprentice was dragged in his wake. Almost laughable, had Alaric not felt the growing fear in the pit of his belly slowly stealing his courage away.

They hauled Alaric this way and that, and he finally realized the path was leading to the Council of Mageborn’s hall. There, he was dragged through double doors into a large chamber where a huge circle of chairs and a semicircle of tables open down the middle were barely visible in the shadows. Alaric had little time to look and see who else might lurk there, though he sensed several magical auras.

He was taken straight to the dais where four smaller chairs flanked an ornate one that looked almost like a throne. Three figures stood conferring there now, and one was Turlough Greenfyn. Alaric’s stomach actually found a lower level into which to sink at the sight.

The High Mage broke off his conversation with the other two and turn to cast a steely glower on the approaching party.

“Lorymer? What have you found?” Turlough asked.

The mage in the lead took the steps to the dais while the guards continued to drag Alaric along. “This was the carrier that allowed the demon to breech our walls, Lord Magister,” Lorymer said, holding forth the psaltery. “This contraption still reeks of the creature’s essence.”

Turlough took the psaltery, giving it a look of utter disgust. “You’re right,” he muttered. “Burn the damned things.”

“NO!” Alaric cried. The whole experience was sobering him quickly. “That’s mine! You can’t burn it!”

Turlough’s gaze came to Alaric as though noticing him for the very first time. The glance was as cold as ice and chilled Alaric to his toes. “And you are?” the High Mage asked.

“Alaric Braidwine, Lord Magister,” Alaric said.

“And this instrument is yours?”

“Yes, Lord Magister.”

“Then you are the one who brought the demon here,” Turlough said. “Summon it here at once.”

“I know nothing of summoning demons, Lord Magister,” Alaric said, finding his tongue in spite of that fearsome scowl.

“Yet you admit the psaltery is yours, and the beast was obviously housed there.” Turlough looked at Lorymer. “Any sign of how the psaltery came in?”

“No, Lord Magister,” Lorymer said. “The trail ended in this one’s chamber.”

“And how did you get it there?” Turlough asked, turning on Alaric once more.

“I brought it with me when I came in the front door,” Alaric said.

“Then you admit that you brought the demon here?”

“No, Lord Magister! There was no demon in my psaltery when I arrived.”

“Do you deny the demon’s essence is there?” Turlough brought the psaltery close. The guards tensed, though what they expected to happen was beyond Alaric’s reckoning. Turlough shoved the psaltery into Alaric’s face. Bitterness washed his tongue and he flinched. Horns, it was the same as that he encountered at the tavern when he and Fenelon…

Alaric felt his face go white. “I can feel it, but…”

“But nothing,” Turlough said. “You brought the demon into our midst and set it loose to steal an old map from the library.”

“I never!” Alaric protested.

“So where is this demon, and which map did it take, and what did you want with that map?” Turlough said.

“I don’t know anything about any demon or any map,” Alaric said.

“And I say you are lying,” Turlough roared, cutting the air with one arm. “And under the laws of this Mage Council you are subject to be sundered of your power for consorting with demons and bringing them into our sanctuary.”

“S…sundered?” Alaric whispered. That sounded rather painful in his estimation.

“After which you will be put into prison to await trial. And if it is found that you consorted with demons for purpose of ill gain, you will be executed by beheading.”

“Uncle, I think you should give your words careful consideration before you jump to erroneous conclusions and make a fool of yourself.”

Turlough spun around towards the speaker, fire filling his eyes. Alaric blinked and peered beyond the billowing robes at the two figures as they approached. One was a woman, lithe, sloe-eyed and exceptionally beautiful in spite of her simple manner of dress. The other was Fenelon.

“Watch your tongue!” Turlough snapped.

“Gladly,” Fenelon said, “but I do think you should at least listen to reason.”

“What reason?” Turlough challenged.

“If Alaric had brought the demon in, the creature would have set off every warding spell we’ve woven into this place,” Fenelon said.

“He could have cloaked the demon’s presence,” Lorymer said in defense of the High Mage.

“Then why did Wendon not notice the cloaking spell,” Fenelon said, wagging a finger. “He is particularly sensitive to cloaking spells. That is why he is sent to greet newcomers, is it not?” And only Alaric could see the faint gleam that filled Fenelon’s eyes as he said that.
He knows perfectly well Wendon is not able to sense his cloaking spells,
Alaric thought.

“True enough,” Turlough said with a sigh, “But this young man could have gated the beast in afterwards, and cloaked the gate to hide its coming.

“Were that the case, why bother hiding the demon in a psaltery?” Fenelon said and smiled. “In either case, it is very unlikely. Alaric does not know how to cast a gate spell.”

Alaric wanted to kiss Fenelon for that one.
Of course…I’m safe…It was Fenelon who cloaked the gate spell and…
He stopped with those thoughts. Fenelon opened a gate spell…the psaltery felt heavy at the inn…the bitter taste that assailed Alaric’s tongue all evening…and that sense of being watched from close quarters. Horns, this whole mess was all Fenelon’s fault!

“You are certain of this?” Turlough said.

“If you’re not willing to take my word for it,” Fenelon said, “Then let Etienne truth touch him.”

Turlough sighed once more and nodded. “Very well. Let us get this over with. The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can all get back to our beds.”

The dark-eyed woman stepped forward, and having her so close, Alaric felt his face flush. She smiled. “This will not hurt,” she said and put the tip of one finger against his forehead, closing her eyes. “Question him now,” she said.

Alaric felt a tingling sensation wash his skin. Her aura had a warm, sensual feeling to it. He swallowed hard and hoped the loose folds of his nightshirt were enough to hide his feelings.
Just how much can she sense?
he wondered.

“Did you, Alaric Braidwine, willingly and knowingly gate a demon into this place?” Turlough asked.

“No, Lord Magister, I did not,” Alaric said softly.

“And are you possessed of the knowledge to gate walk across the world and cloak your spells?”

“No, Lord Magister,” Alaric said. “Those are but a few of the skills I came here to learn.”

Etienne suddenly opened her eyes and withdrew her finger. “He speaks true, Lord Magister,” she said. “I felt no lie in his words. He is innocent of all accusations.”

If it were not for the guards still holding Alaric’s arms, he would have kissed Etienne. Relief washed over him like a wave. His head spun.

Turlough frowned with just a hint of disappointment as the mage woman turned in his direction. “Very well, he is obviously innocent. Release him.”

The ham-like hands let go, and Alaric stumbled forward, feeling weak and unsteady. Could fear drain a man so, or was it the aftermath of adrenalin and drunkenness?

“But, there is still the matter of how the demon got in, and how it found refuge in your psaltery,” Turlough said.

“Uncle, I think I can explain that,” Fenelon said. Alaric cringed. The truth was about to be revealed. They had broken some other rule. He would be sent home in shame.

“That is, if I am given enough time to study the matter, of course,” Fenelon said and took the psaltery from Turlough’s grasp.

Turlough glowered in a suspicious manner, but he nodded. “Very well, I shall leave the matter in your hands.” He shifted his gaze to Alaric who wondered if his own unease was coloring his face again. “Now, while we are on the subject, there is still the matter of your training, Master Braidwine. Since you appear to lack many of the greater skills, I think it would be wise to choose a master mageborn to train you this very night. There are many fine masters I could apprentice you to…” His gaze turned sourly on Fenelon. “…but as I think on it, the most perfect choice for your mageborn master would be none other than my own blood kin, Magister Fenelon Greenfyn.”